Here is My Real Head series Pt. 5

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

8. The Sound and Feel of Carpet

    Where I long to swim and the dirt I’m buried in are two entirely different earths.

     What becomes a fish is born free of their counting clock, while what disintegrates into a worm is born already dying to blast off into space.

     And I think that’s a lot like me; I’m a disrupted galaxy. My black holes are my quirks.

-~-

     For as long as I can remember, the sensation of touching carpet with my skin, or the sound of someone else’s, has always enraged me. I want to smash my own father’s face into a thousand imperfect pieces every single time he rubs his feet on the carpet, assumingly forgetting how many times I’ve told him I can’t stand it.

     Around the age of three or four, my mom came over to my house. At the time, I referred to her as my aunt Stephanie, as biologically, she is my birth mother’s sister.

     She came over to tell my birth mother that she wanted to take me to the Florida Aquarium, and I imagine she was basically asking for permission because she was so young. From what I can recall, my birth mother was reluctant, but hiding it so. I assume she was jealous, she slyly tried to convince me it wasn’t a great idea by telling me of the sharks that would be there. Knowing it was my biggest fear—aside from tornadoes, which no one knew of at the time—she had me instantly terrified. At some point during the conversation, I jumped up and ran down the hallway, where I accidently fell to my knees and skidded across the carpet into her bedroom door.

     I was left with painful rug burn at the end of the hallway, crying and terrified. I wanted to go and spend time with my aunt Stephanie at the aquarium, I just wanted to be brave enough to go, as now it was required. I was angry my birth mother ruined it for me by telling me of my horrors awaiting me there. If I went after hearing about the sharks, I was to be forced into a situation I had to be brave in, when I already had so much fear within me begging to rip free from my chest.

     Reflecting back, I think I have a pretty decent guess as to why carpet bothers me so. Though it’s important to mention first, it’s obviously another piece of my negative childhood conditioning by the rage it brews, as opposed to the various other emotions it could arouse instead.

     When I really think about the personal essence of carpet, I realize its symbolism has always meant fear, and more so, being forced into fear by an outside force. It’s an odd, and unusual situation rarely faced in regular life. Now when I fear something, I almost always have a choice to face it or turn away without any true consequences besides my own guilt which is easily dealt with. However, in the aquarium situation, I was being “punished” by not going to the aquarium if I wasn’t brave enough to conquer my fear, unfairly before ever even witnessing it.

     What bothers me most is there was no need for me to know about the sharks prior to entering the aquarium in the first place. My birth mother scared me before I even had a chance to comprehend the fear.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 4

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

7. Being Honest with My Parents

     While reluctantly listening in on a phone call, a light bulb flickered above my head. 

     Everyone's parents should know who their children really are. My parents know who I truly am, as far as they allow themselves to see. My life and emotions are an open book, there's nothing left to wonder. If there were an uncertainty, I would gladly answer any question asked with one hundred percent honestly. However, I know that they cherry-pick what I proclaim like Christians do the Bible, or Muslims do the Qur'an. At least, they have in the past.

     So to practice this new idea, I'm going to share two more things with you and my parents to air out the things that have recently been on my mind. I hope this can inspire you to be honest with your parents, and most importantly yourself about your most 'shameful' opinions of things. I have been ashamed and scared for a very long time to tell my parents things, some I am still nervous to utter. But I have forced the time to arrive for me to push through my web of fears. My words are like razor blades, but I'm not trying to cut anyone. I'm trying to cut myself open to show you my real head.

"I am so tangled in my sins that I cannot escape.
Pinch the head off, collapse me like a weed
Someone had to go this far."
- 'Man That You Fear' by Marilyn Manson

     I don't feel a pang of guilt or urge to help out around the house as much as I could go out of my way to anymore because I am sick of being the only one that does anything. My dad's girlfriend would rather rip her skin off with pliers - hmm, wonder how that feels! - instead of lift a finger over something besides a television remote, so I know if I leave something to be done my dad will be the one to do it.

     But wait, I have a brother, right? Indeed I do, and he is eleven years old. My brother has two chores that he carries through with complaints. His two chores are feeding the dogs and and doing a half-assed job of vacuuming the kitchen on a barely weekly basis. Activities such as cleaning his room or putting away clothes are very rarely done alone, and never done without a smart alec remark.

     Like I said before, I don't feel guilty anymore. I did for a long time, but not because my dad's shitty girlfriend sent me harrassing text messages telling me how lazy she thought I was for not doing every little thing around the house so my dad didn't have to. (Kettle, you could have gotten off your ass and helped him if you really wanted to. In fact, you still can! Maybe if you spent less time attempting to belittle everyone and feeling sorry for yourself, you'd find a lot of time suddenly freed up.)

     I know my dad works long days and comes home to deal with this undeniably fake household, and that sucks. I'll repeat it again - I know it sucks, really hard. But I realized that my situation isn't exactly beautiful either. His girlfriend might be under the impression that sitting at home alone all day is positively wonderful for me to experience, but I'd imagine she could only be deluded by that assumption because there are five televisions here that she'd love to be watching in the time I could be, but don't.

     I refuse to do more than I feel is necessary for me to do to avoid being classified as lazy on an unbiased scale. My brother's life is perfect compared to what my home life was at his age. I don't see the fairness in being orally raped equating to doing all of the chores my brother could be helping with, later on in life. There's not a single, plausible reason for him to not grow up. I'm not going to be another ingredient for him not to, not anymore. My only hope and point for not helping out my dad more, is that one day - my hope - he will get sick of doing all the things I don't offer to do and ask 'someone' else to do them - my point. It's nothing personal against him, but asking why my brother does nothing while I do everything has gotten me absolutely nowhere.

     This next one's shorter because it's very simple. I'm not making an effort to talk to my mom as much as I used to because I don't want to be around her. I never thought I'd arrive at a point in my life where I truly didn't want to spend time with her. Honestly, I don't want to breathe in her second hand smoke because I value my life more than she seemingly values hers. Spending large amounts of time with her isn't worth dying a premature death, and it never will be ever again for anyone. When Nietzche said we have to kill ourselves many times while still alive to become immortal, I doubt smoking our lungs out is what he meant. I'm not sure I'll ever understand why she thinks she's invincible. Truthfully I don't even care anymore because it's grown so old.

     I'm disappointed that my mom's respect for me isn't substantial enough to cause her to not smoke in my presence. I've always been told - by smokers, no less - that if I don't want to be around it, then don't be. I take carelessly tossed about comments very seriously. Sarcasm applied equals results, as a result  of not spending as much - really none at all - time with her, I'm not coughing and feeling sickly as much as I did before. Much less, absolutely disgusted by how little someone can care for themselves.

     What I've never understood though, is why infants are more important to most smokers than someone only a few years older. When did I become unimportant to my mom? What age did I turn for it to suddenly be acceptable for my mom, grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc., to assist in collectively killing me? My honest nature would love to see the looks on their faces upon delivering them truthful news of having just discovered I have lung cancer and will likely die because of their lack of self control and my stupid decision to be around them.

-----

     I ask that no one thinks for a moment this is easy to share with the World Wide Web. It's not. I feel reluctance every time I post a blog describing how I feel about specific people or situations, angry or not. I know why I feel this way more than a normal person does. It should be pretty obvious that a victim of sexual abuse feels like everything should be kept inside to protect whatever is leftover of them. But I am no longer a shell! I refuse to be a decoratively painted hermit crab. My insides are beautiful, every last bit of them, and I will never be consciously ashamed to show you no matter how scared I am.

     I have learned by writing this and thinking it over that one of the biggest fears is something I was too scared to even admit to myself until this afternoon. Now I will admit it to you, but I'm sure it has been obvious for quite a time: I am scared to be honest with my parents about my feelings.

     Fortunately I know where the roots lie.

     So now I ask - do your parents know who you truly are?

'Here is My Real Head' series Pt. 3

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson
I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

5. Worth of My Peers

     There are quite a few people in my life that I don’t think the world would mourn over if they were to die tomorrow. Also, there is a smaller number of people that I believe are better off dead. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever to society and are positively a waste of existence on this planet. Their consumerism is wasteful, especially if it’s constant without equal or nearly rivaling productivity. This scale loosely decides who I would annihilate or cripple tomorrow if I were playing the fictional character God’s hands.

6. Trust
     I grow irritated when people claim they have trust issues. Typically these are people that are unable to handle the aspect of a healthy relationship that involves trusting their partner enough to not constantly badger them about cheating or their whereabouts. These are weak people, and mainly self-assigned as such. They are therefore casting themselves even deeper into the well of weakness. These folks don’t usually have historical issues with trust, they’re just bitches, immature and irrational bitches.

     If you have a history of trusting relationships gone awry, you don’t have ‘trust issues’. You have a genuine problem that needs addressing, care, and attention by yourself and what may seem unfortunate, by others you have to learn to trust. I am one of these people. To have been groomed so well—and I am so well groomed I belong collared and leashed on a showroom floor—that I had to have trusted the people that brushed me to their liking. With the intense level I climaxed and plateaued at, I trusted them an awful lot.

     I don’t trust anyone entirely, but not in the typical way. I don’t have the problem of trusting people with secrets because I don’t have anything that is a secret, or won’t be a secret for long.
I wouldn’t trust anyone, not even my parents, brother, family, or closest friends with my life. It’s a wonderfully cute concept to think of your loved ones saving your life, especially in the place of theirs, but I wouldn’t trust anyone to save me from death’s grip, especially if they were in harm’s way themselves or were being forced to choose between their life or mine.
I don’t whole-heartedly believe that anyone would give their life for me when it came to the carnal reality of being faced with their own death. Like Winston in the unfortunate year of 1984, I would expect them to shout at the top of their desperate lungs, “Do it to Alexis! Do it to Julia! Not me! Alexis! I don’t care what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!” I wouldn’t blame them, I accept the reality of a human being not wanting to die and offering up everything imaginable to not have to prematurely.
Truthfully, I’d be flattered if someone that loved me, loved me deeply enough to think of me for last person they’d offer instead of themselves as their ultimate sacrifice. By being last, I would be the most loved and I’d be honored by their ultimate and complete betrayal.
     In that light, I wouldn’t give my life for anyone I presently know. If I had to pick someone I’d die for, I couldn’t name someone I am personally acquainted with. If I could choose to die for someone I don’t know on a personal level, it’d probably be for Marilyn Manson or Richard Dawkins because of all the things they’re still doing for the world to make it a better place for children to grow up in, and children are the most important class to me. Were they to have stopped yesterday with no intentions of restarting their revolutions, they’d be scratched off my list of possibilities without little resentment, if any at all.
     If need be, I would endure physical and mental pain and torture in place of someone’s life, heck, I might even offer a limb for someone I deeply cared for. But if it came to my untimely death as a choice against theirs, they’re the ones dying prematurely.
     I have two main reasons, the stronger of the two is that I am young and have a lot I’m going to do in my life with more time to do it than the majority of the people I care for. I don’t consciously think of the people I love as being lesser than me, but an appropriate example of how my perception of trust differs is that I do not trust anyone other than myself to create productive and positive change in the world. No one could ever convince me they would without a doubt, though if someone were able to, I would reconsider giving my life for theirs because I don’t consider myself as an entirely above the collection of people I love because I have no proof that I am or am not. I might not be the most beneficial or productive to society out of the group, but I am the only person I can trust one hundred percent.
     I have high self-worth despite my flawed learned personality traits. In any other case my proclamation of self-worth wouldn’t be frowned upon, so don’t you care hypocritically frown here.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 2

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson
I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation 

Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships 

Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust

Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

 

3. Childhood Grooming

     I believe in childhood grooming, because it’s a reality. I do blame the impressionable family members present during my childhood for a lot of the false ideas cluttering my head that I cannot cease to always reel back in, no matter how far I’ve cast them out into sea. Unfortunately, some people’s installation of ideas differs little in that of a pedophile’s grooming of a desired future victim. There were some people that existed in my childhood that had a purposeful reason for convincing me of the things I still believe, or their negative actions towards me. These people are factually to blame, and they don’t just exist in my childhood, but in yours too.

     Blame doesn’t necessarily have to be negative all the time. You could blame your mother for raising you to be particularly kind to the elderly, but you could also blame your mother for raising you to believe you’re more worthless than the gum on the bottom of her shoe.

     I am not afraid to cast blame where blame is rightfully due. One thing that bothers me above most is when someone is to blame for something, but are allowed to carry on believing they aren’t. Blissfully ignorant to their harm, even worse if they vocalize their believed righteousness.

4. Sex and Relationships

     I don’t remember the night I lost my virginity, not even a fragment of the event. I wasn’t drunk or high, it’s likely I don’t remember because it was held with little importance, or possibly because my brain is cold-wired to throw out anything sexual because of its experiences with sexual events in the past that were obviously negative.

     Being unable to view sex as a normal human being is mainly the fault of every person that molested me and my biological mother, were she not sociopathically void of conscience, who didn’t stop them after she became aware of their doings. I am guilt-ridden whenever the topic of sex comes up without plausible reason. Sex is viewed so negatively in my mind that it tries to completely flush it away every time it’s made re-aware that sex still exists in the physical world I reside in.

     I think the reason I’ve ever been in love is because I was never presented with a positive example of what a relationship should be like, and still have not been to this day. I’ve never been in a relationship with someone I could fall in love with because I seek out difficulties and mutual abuse subconsciously. I don’t want to be in a relationship now and foresee no future desire to be in one because of these recent realizations. All the aspects of a relationship are positively worthless to me, dating, marriage, sex, sole companionship, children with a partner (as opposed to single adoption), etc.

     Upon first perception, my concepts of a relationship are extremely negative compared to societies norm. Physical/sexual abuse between partners or towards the children, destroying property with fists (‘Use Your Fist and Not Your Mouth’, Marilyn Manson),  secret hatred or disgust of your partner, dishonesty and lying, cheating with and without consent, frequent screaming matches, lack of desire to resolve resentment, remaining with your partner only for financial benefits or another sort of personal gain, plus the various types of other torture all come to mind at first thought. I have to otherwise convince myself to believe for a second that other behaviors exist in relationships outside of fairytales, least long enough for them to come out of my mouth as my false perception of normal to please my listener.

     My perceptions of a normal relationship lead me to seek out the very things I listed and more. By not consenting to a relationship, I am protecting myself from what I don’t particularly want, although sickeningly, a part of me does find the aforementioned appealing. Nonetheless, I view them as relatively acceptable, meaning I am not often shocked by the darkness of relationships. Growing up in the society of the Western World has shown me that the types of relationship aspects that first come to my mind aren’t acceptable by the society I’m a part of, the one most influential to the world therefore subconsciously deemed as correct, but I remain well groomed.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 1

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust

Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

 

     One of the things I’ve deemed most important for me to do is to face things I’m afraid of. It strongly ties in with the quote I assigned the year 2010, ‘Find what you are afraid of, face it, and then you won’t be afraid of it anymore.’ [Marilyn Manson, 1998]  Not that I never did before 2010, but now more than ever I’ve recognized its importance, particularly its importance in my life.
     I’m afraid of a few physical things. Sharks, tornadoes, and getting water in my eyes, to name a few. However, the majority of my fears have always upheld residency in the psychological or sociological realm. I am so well groomed still to this very day that I am frequently terrified of speaking what’s really on my mind. If not terrified, the fear persists on an unnatural scale of appropriateness.
     As a child, I used to secretly draw pictures of my dad with another family because I wasn’t brave enough to tell him that his actions led me to believe that he wanted to leave me and our ‘family’ (loosely used). Years later when he found one of the scrawlings, horrifyingly in my presence, I was deeply ashamed.

     Whenever I reflect back to those instances or ones similar, I shake my head at my childhood self. I wish I could lend her a helping hand, or some useful advice. I wish I could tell her to not fear being as brave as she really wanted to be, no matter what anyone tried to convince her with otherwise. I wish I could tell her how to escape the inevitable outside party conditioning after her own shampooing, but I don’t even have a substantial solution. I wish I could have saved myself for the child’s sake, for me then and for me now, but the lyric ‘there’s no one here to save ourselves’ [‘Man That You Fear’, Marilyn Manson] has never rung truer in my ears.

     Today I decided I wanted to list some things that are my completely honest opinions about the topic discussed. I am showing you my ‘real head’ without any reservations watering my beliefs. Fear-ladden, some. But today I am bravery stricken and bravery is self-contagious.

(This got to be nearly 2,700 words and seven pages long in Microsoft Word, so I am going to split it up into parts that have relative topics. I’ll post them in daily succession. Thank you for reading!)

1. Addiction

     I consider the title ‘addict’ the middle stepping stone of anything relating to the sorts of drugs, alcohol, cutting, sex, etc. The first stone is active participation, the second stone is claiming addiction as a state of being and existing, and the third stone is realizing you don’t necessarily have to be stuck in that mindset forever. It’s realizing NA, AA, SMA, etc. is all a form of brainwashing watered down by society into acceptability. Were these groups advocating something of a different topic, it would be a church or a cult which are equally despicable by various parties, and equally despicable by me personally.
     Not everyone can be strong enough to hop to the third stone, I am at terms with that and hold no resentment towards people that haven’t taken that leap, even if I feel they’re capable of landing safely. By no means, however, do I consider it a leap of faith. It is a reality to me, unless otherwise proved by something scientific.
     Your body is not eternally addicted to physically addictive drugs as far as I know, and you can change your mind to dispel whatever mental addiction subsides, at the least enough so that you won’t partake again. It’s a conscious choice we must make if we want to live happily without constantly being reminded of our faults and past, and I know with me personally it made me feel worse than better. Last time I checked, in any other form that’s considered dwelling, and frowned upon by the populations of major societies when it comes to any other subject like past relationships, or a poor childhood. No one wants to hear you whine or offer up the same excuses for everything, so why is it okay here? Well in my opinion it shouldn’t be, but because it keeps a majority of past ‘abusers’ under control, it’s a popular remedy.
     It’s important to remember that with the help of NA, AA, SMA, etc., you’re ultimately making the decision on whether or not to repeat your actions. The group may be offering something to your table of guilt, but are they really offering up respectable plates of reason? It’s important to come to terms with why you’re not still repeating your past behaviors. Do you genuinely not want to, or are you not because someone else is telling you to? Although the brainwashing can work, it doesn’t work forever, and it’s hardly different than the church convincing you their spiritual scriptures are what create your morals. Your genetics have and always will write your morality, as your mind will always inscribe what behaviors you do and do not participate in.

2. Self Mutilation 
     I don’t consider self mutilation in the form of cutting necessarily an addiction. I recognize that endorphins are released in the brain as a feeling of release when the act is carried through, and perhaps that does add a physical addictive attribute to the act. In my opinion, it doesn’t have as strong of a backing as drugs or alcohol. I believe that it’s favored by many, therefore allowing it the popular label of ‘addiction’ by society.

     I have experienced many mindsets when self mutilating, the most popular being dissociation without memory of the act, spur of the moment anger, rage, or sadness, and as a show of control over my physical behavior. I have upheld the last one listed within the past two weeks a single time, and I do not regret it. I wasn’t sad, and I am not sad now over the fact of my behavior. I am proud actually, proud of my control that it began and ended when and where it did, among other things.
     I don’t consider myself an addict any longer. I finally realize that I am above something that doesn’t even exist. Being an idea isn’t existence, otherwise all church or cult sermons—who can tell the difference anymore—would be true. I got caught up in believing something that wasn’t true, not all too uncommon of human beings, ha.